Fan Fiction
TITLE: Reigning Factors
AUTHOR: Psycho Squirrel
RATING: PG-13
CODES: C/T
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Set shortly after the events of Extreme Risk (about a week). Star Trek: Voyager and the episodes, premises, and
characters thereof belong to Paramount Pictures (NOT me.)
SUMMARY: B'Elanna reflects and tells Chakotay the whole story behind her depression.
You always said I was a rotten liar, Chakotay. I wear my feelings on my face; I'm honest to a fault; I always tell people what's on my mind -- according to you. Once, you even told me you couldn't figure out if I'd be a fabulous actress because I portray emotion so well, or a shitty one because I can't help but let my own emotions show through.
I think you're wrong. I think I'd be a fabulous actress, if I wasn't wanted by the Federation on several counts of robbery, destruction of property, lying under oath, aiding and abetting, espionage, fraud, and homicide, to name a few. All these crimes, committed in the name of freedom: I share them with about a thousand other Maquis, yourself included�don't forget that, Chakotay. I know your secrets, you know mine�or at least, you think you do. I told you I was a decent liar. How else could I have kept this from you for so long?
How long has it been? I honestly don't know. There wasn't a definite starting point, one marked event that triggered a downward spiral. I didn't even know it was downward at all until...well, I don't know that, either. Maybe after that accident on the holodeck? (I heard later that you carried me in your arms all the way to Sickbay yourself rather than wait for them to power up the transporters. Funny, Chakotay, I've never pictured you as the panicking type.) In retrospect, that seems far too long a time, even to me. But truly, up until a point, my habit seemed normal to me. I didn't notice the depression that snatched my life and pounded it flat, making things far too even and bland to be worthwhile -- it worked too slowly for that. It's the theory of relativity, says the engineer in me; nothing exists on its own. How can you have downs if you don't have ups against which to gauge them? The mutilation itself is slow, senseless, cumulative; I have no desire for the searing burn of an open, leaking phaser wound or bat'leth slash. The purple stains beneath the skin --hemorrhaging blood vessels -- last far longer, releasing their pain in a continuous dull throb that only intensifies if you press them.
It was important to me to always be doing something to induce the injury --that's why I so frequently employed the Holodeck for my purposes, instead of simply banging my head on the wall or jumping off the upper balcony in Engineering. See, if a holo-Cardassian made me bleed, even if I was the one who programmed him, it wasn't me who was to blame for the injury. I simply got caught in the crossfire of something horrible.
It took me a long time to stop lying to myself; to realize that I was the one playing God and creating the pain I so desperately craved. I wanted to be the unfortunate third party in the situation, not the suicidal maniac. I hate being the victim, you know that, but in my case I would rather have been that than the one responsible for the injurious actions that something told me were simply insane. After the accident, when I realized that I didn't have the Holodeck, my safety net, to blame anymore (thanks to the Captain's and your constant surreptitious monitoring -- don't think I didn't notice), mutilation seemed far more severe and ominous.
It wasn't something I could quit cold turkey, though. That night (or morning, was it?) after the Doctor released me to my quarters, I was lying in bed debating whether to sneak down to the holodeck again before you overrode my door lock and, obviously feigning ignorance (you really are a worse liar than I am), made the decision for me. But it wasn't your decision to make, Chakotay! I wanted to kill you at the time; I would have been halfway there if you hadn't had such a frighteningly strong grip on my arm. Your hands told me I would be dead before they let go. Maybe that should have scared me a little, but I was too fucking mad for that. In the Maquis we treated each other more like equals, but here, you can pull rank on me in a flash if you want to -- you did, actually, when you overrode my commands to shut down the program. I was helpless, and flight was certainly not an option after that -- nor had it ever been.
At least the holo-cadavers littered across the ground were on my side. I saw the fear in your eyes as you tried not to stare at them; it gave me both a small surge of power and a ripple of uneasiness in my stomach. Was the scenario so bad that you, who I saw fight off hell-bent Cardassians single-handedly back during the rebellion, could be frightened by it? It was so familiar to me. The bodies meant nothing. Did you know that I had initially programmed a holographic version of you to be among the corpses? I don't know why I took it out (Don't flatter yourself; it wasn't because I couldn't stand seeing you dead.) Too risky, I guess; if someone found it, they might suspect that I was plotting to kill you. They weren't intended to find it, of course; I wrapped it too tightly in algorithms and passwords and confirmation codes. And yet, you found it anyway. Guess you're too good for me.
There are still days, as always, when the only thing to do is sleep, for fear of what will -- or won't -- greet me when I wake up. Fuck life; dreams leave things up to someone else for a change. They compensate for what is lacking; they make things decent when indecency is an integral part of life. I know dreams are all in my head, but, Kahless, sometimes inside can be so much more welcoming than out!
And thus, the paradox. Because it was my own mind that brought me down in the first place, wasn't it? Somewhere along the way, the trains of thought collided, the chemicals became unbalanced, and I became the way I am. Subsequently, most days were spent avoiding people. I don't know whether the ten pounds I lost was due to my disinclination to eat or because of all the long-cuts I took to avoid talking to you (and the Captain, and Tom, and Harry, and Neelix...) in the hallways. The reigning factor in my life was -- and I guess still is -- my habit; there wasn't anything else to talk about anymore. I was good, though. I smiled at all the right times, went to every senior staff-briefing, got my engineering reports in on time -- just enough social contact to reassure you all that everything was just fine. After my shifts were completed, it was over to the holodeck to see if maybe I wouldn't do something to put a kink in that flat, monotonous plane I was getting so sick of�injury, explosions, death; I didn't care. From pain arose excitement and purpose. It gave me something to fight.
I never intended for you to find out, Chakotay, believe me. But then came the day -- last week -- when pain didn't work anymore. I could dive out of airplanes at stratospheric altitudes and wrestle Cardassians all I wanted; it didn't make one fucking bit of difference. Banana pancakes would not mean shit anymore. I was dead at the exact moment I realized I didn't want to be. From that point, what was there to do but take it up a notch? The "accident" with the Delta Flyer simulation was not an accident at all. "Leave whether I live or die up to fate, it doesn't matter to me anymore." Looking back on it, I'm damn glad you arrived when you did, but I wasn't then. (Ironically, I was angry that I hadn't been conscious to strangle you.)
Maybe there's hope for me yet. I am beginning to be repulsed by the life I was living; it seems so wrong now, and I don't want anything to do with it -- for the most part, anyway. My habit is still there on the holodeck, I know; always waiting to greet me again on a chance bad day. I haven't had the will to delete all my old programs yet. Will I someday? Add that to the list of things I don't yet know. "Maybe" is the best I can come up with for now.
The End
